By Dillyn Patten
When I was younger, motivation was simple: I loved games, and I loved to compete, even with the simplest of things like a board game at the kitchen table. I didn’t need a big reason or a big goal; I just loved the feeling of chasing something. Similar to most likely all athletes, I never questioned why I started playing sports in the first place, especially because I grew up in a home where athletics were just a part of my life. With both my parents playing collegiate sports—my mother playing soccer at Cornell and my father playing lacrosse at Hobart—I was raised around discipline, a standard of effort, and learned early on that showing up and working hard wasn’t optional; it was just the “normal.”
“Play with a chip on your shoulder.” “Give 150% effort.” “Play hard.” No matter if it’s practice or a game—whether those words were said to me back in elementary school or right before I step onto the field now at Cornell—they’ve always been in the background of how I compete. They’re more than just clichés to me; they’re reminders of a standard. Effort is the one thing I can control, and I’ve learned that when motivation comes and goes, that standard is what keeps me steady.
And let me tell you, that standard became crucial my freshman year, when I faced probably the biggest challenge I have ever faced. Days before I was supposed to start my collegiate career, I went up for a draw, and honestly I couldn’t even tell you what happened after I jumped. One second I was in the air, and the next I was on the ground. I still, to this day, can’t even tell you what happened; the moment just feels like a blackout. At that moment, everything that I had been building toward felt like it got ripped away. I had spent years picturing what it would feel like to step onto the field at Cornell, and suddenly I was told that I would not be playing that year, as I had torn my ACL. I remember feeling completely numb—not sad, just completely shocked. Like, how does this happen right before the thing you’ve worked your whole life for?
I had been lucky for most of my career to avoid real injuries. Sure, I had the occasional ankle sprain, but nothing that ever stopped me. And nothing could have prepared me for how heavy this was—not just physically, but mentally. I had always heard of people tearing their ACLs, but never ever imagined I would ever be in those shoes. It is funny what no one talks about: how lonely recovery can feel. Everyone around you is moving forward, playing, while you're just trying to bend your knee and relearn how to walk.
Rehab quickly became my season. My routine. My “competition”. Progress wasn’t measured in goals or wins anymore; it was measured in tiny milestones: getting range of motion back, taking steps without thinking, trusting my leg enough to jog. Some days I felt motivated and hopeful, and other days, a lot of the time, I felt frustrated, exhausted, and scared—scared I wouldn’t come back the same, scared I’d fall behind, scared I’d lose the part of me that felt most like me.
That’s where the standard mattered. Motivation comes and goes. But discipleship is a decision—something I learned early on from my parents. On the days I didn’t feel like myself, I still showed up. I did the boring work, and the work that didn’t get the applause. And over time, I learned that effort doesn’t always look like sprinting or grinding through hard practice. Sometimes effort is consistency, choosing to believe in progress you can’t see yet and staying committed when it would be easier to give in to doubt.
Looking back, I am utterly and completely thankful to have had this experience. While I wouldn’t wish it on anyone else, this experience truly shaped me into the person I am today. It forced me to build a deeper confidence, one that wasn’t dependent on being healthy, being fast, or being on the field. It taught me patience, gratitude, and what it really means to be mentally tough. Because anyone can be motivated when things are going well. The real test is who you are when everything feels uncertain, and the only thing you can control is the standard you hold yourself to.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve also realized that what drives me isn’t just my own goals; it's the people beside me: my teammates, my best friends. More than anything, I’m thankful to sports for giving me people that I can relentlessly rely on. Lacrosse and soccer didn’t just teach me how to compete; they gave me relationships that shaped who I am. Some of my closest friendships exist because we chose the same hard thing together, day after day. We’ve celebrated the biggest wins, sat through the hurt together, and been there for each other in the moments no one else sees.
Still to this day, Kaleigh Harden, Hollis Mulry, and Jade Lowe are a part of my family. They were the first people I reached out to when I went through my injury in college and so many other hardships. They were there in all the ordinary moments without any of us even realizing it was happening.
What I love most is that those relationships didn’t end when the season did or when high school did. Even as life pulled us into different paths, we carried that bond with us—checking in, showing up for each other, and still being the same support system we were back then. That’s the part of sports people don’t always talk about, but it’s the part I’m most grateful for: it gave me friendships that last and a reason to keep showing up that's bigger than myself.
When I think back to that kid who just loved to compete, I realize that not much has changed. I still love the chase—but now I understand what I’m really chasing. It’s not just wins or playing time or even being on the field. It’s the standard I hold myself to, the consistency to show up when motivation fades, and the people beside me who make the hard days worth it. Sports taught me how to work, how to endure, and how to lean on others. And long after the games are over, those lessons—and those relationships—are what I’ll carry with me.